


search the sky for birds, but neither they nor sheep guts will keep you safe

by theholychesse



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, its late at night and ive ran out of shits to give a while ago, there is literlly no plot i wrote this because i can and it is disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4736636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know what's wrong, nor do you know what's right, only what is now, and what you want.</p><p>In other words, this is how Homura doesn't come to age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	search the sky for birds, but neither they nor sheep guts will keep you safe

You’re a god, in the sense that Loki was a god, that Coyote was a god, that Seth was a god.

 

The world isn’t merely at your fingertips, the universe is far grander and larger than even the most ambitious scientist could imagine, and you have it all in front of you, gentle and serene, glowing with countless colours, some in the infra-ray, others in the gamma, and some in the colours of the microwave. The low groans of the universe as your fingers cut through it fill up your ears, and you avoid Earth. You know exactly how you can hear each tiny fluttery gasp of a newborn star, the harsh panting, and whimpering of a star at its end, the cooing of a galaxy as it comforts the born and the dying, and the emotionful silence of the empty spaces in between.

The tapestry of time and space is before you, and so is the universe, and so are all of the multiverses, and so is a little café in Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower. You reach out to pluck a string, causing trillions of galaxies to poof out of existence, and to have a cup of mint tea to sit in your hand. Maybe it’s hot. Maybe it’s String Theory. Maybe it’s light. You’re not sure, always sure, as it sinks down into your gullet, into your guts, and pouring into space to form a billion squealing suns.

You’re their mother.

 

You reach out and make it so that part of the (multi)universe has reached absolute zero.

You never were cut out for motherhood.

 

( _Taint yourself to the point where you don’t know where you end and sin begins. Maybe by this point you are one and the same._ )

 

You rise when She holds your shoulder, as you sit in class, listening to teachers, human, carbon based lifeforms with electricity and chemicals as their soul, try to explain what they never will be capable of doing, and lead her to the infirmary. (To intimacy) She has a weak heart, this most serene Madoka, one you may have had once upon a time, but not really, because the moment you became this—

 

( _File down my nails, to my knuckles, snip my hair down to my scalp until I bleed cerise, and powder me until my lungs are caked in the colour of perfect skin.)_

 

You’ve been around always. When the universe was born, you were there, contemplating something, anything, everything, and you were around before that, and before that, and after Everything. You gave birth to yourself, and you killed yourself.

 

All for Her.

She, with long brown hair, and big blue eyes, and by the name of Caroline, in an enclave in the Alps.

She, with bleeding knuckles and a sneer on her face at the boy who tried to hurt her, tried to hurt her heart, her mind, her body, and left her awfully queer.

She, with quivering lips, and fat tears down her face, pleading with you, as you kiss her goodnight, and count the number of ribs this version has. It’s one off. You’re not pleased.

 

( _You remember visions of fire. You remember being scared, once upon a time, and feeling like you needed to die to save everyone else. You remember watching you, and you remember laughing until your belly ached, and all of the babes in Alpha Centauri wailing in a perfect B minor replica of Devil’s Trill. It’s a beautiful piece. You remember being the devil that man shook in face of. You remember being the man.)_

( _You remember **nothing**_ **.** )

 

You’re born crying and clinging and naked, with your skin red as blood, and your mother going quiet and still under you. You’re clad in a green cloth, and given to a weeping man, as they lay a sheet over your mother. The man looks at you with disgust, and doesn’t even acknowledge you until they ask for a name.

He answers, Grendel, and, with humour, you wonder if he means to say he fucked Grendel’s mother.

 

You take Fate in hand, and waltz across the decadent halls of Versailles, and then you’re taken by Hope, who kisses you senseless in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and, before long, are plucked out by Despair, who holds your cheeks in a plain living room, with two couches and pictures of a loving family all turned away, and tells you to start anew.

Nothing is your master.

 

“Hey.” Her voice pierces through you, sharp and harsh, and you gasp, your hips twitching in response to a stimulus one of you is experiencing years and centimeters away. You believe it’s a parking lot this time.

She says something again, and you feel shame in you when you can’t recall what it is. (Oh wait you can, because another you is having this happen to her, and the only difference between her and you is that she listens to what Madoka says.)

“You’re unhealthy for me. You. You think I’m perfect, that, that, that, that I can do _everything,_ that I’m a _god,_ but I’m, I’m human, only human, and you’re ruining me with stress and fear and loathing and paranoia. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”

You kiss the badness out of her, and, perhaps, her air as well.

 

 

You’re back at the start, and find yourself pondering on how why this is happening to you.

Oh. Wait. You believe a trillion versions of Sayaka, of Mami, a billion versions of Kyoko, of Madoka, of everyone else, already told you why. But you refuse to accept that, because, really, how can you possibly be anything but perfect?

 

( _Is perfection what the kids are calling it these days?_ )

 

Your sin was merely love, you lament, as you grind a person’s face into a gory mess with your heel.


End file.
